


Found

by Dracopaladin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 20:11:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13015263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracopaladin/pseuds/Dracopaladin
Summary: Sequel to the fantastic "Finally" by @CollectivistCorvid; Dave and Karkat cuddle and watch "Hitch," the 2005 rom-com starring Will Smith.





	Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [collectivistCorvid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/collectivistCorvid/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Finally](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12130839) by [collectivistCorvid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/collectivistCorvid/pseuds/collectivistCorvid). 



You’re not sure if you should have printed out—alchemized, actually, what a pain—another copy of the Cuddle Buddy Application. Was that, like, a one time voucher deal? Was that some contractually obligated cuddling shit? You hope Karkat doesn’t laugh at you. Hell, you know he’s as desperate as you are, but still. You’re both playing it cool. Kind of. Acting like you didn’t cuddle for like half an hour and almost fall asleep in each others’ arms—well, he was in your lap, but your hands were in his hair so you kind of had your arms around him, if that counts—when the mayor waddled in with cans of coffee beans or something and you kind of shoved Karkat out of your lap and got really into Can Town for an hour with the mayor and neither of you talked about the aborted cuddling session—gross, did you two conceive it in some sordid affair and then like not have enough money to raise it so you made the decision to have an operation and you had to like go to a gyno and get it aborted, what kind of terminology is that? Anyway. 

You’re here, again. Same room, half littered with cans, same surprisingly sturdy towers and arches and town halls, same cans lying around to serve as houses, citizens, and/or building blocks as needed before you abandoned this neighborhood. Same time, you think, because while there’s no day or night on the meteor you have this kind of cool trick of always being able to tell exactly what time it is relative to other times, like right now you know you’ve spent one hundred and twenty days, fourteen hours, and thirty seven minutes on the meteor, and it’s been twenty three hours and fifty nine minutes since you handed Karkat that Cuddle Buddy Application, and it’s been one hour and fifty three minutes since you had lunch. An alchemized Tuna Salad Sandwich; you’ve been trying to find captcha recipes or cruxite dowels for every type of sandwich you can think of, and while you used to think of Tuna Salad Sandwiches as the equivalent of the one cheerleader who’s obviously pregnant and has to quit the team and leave high school—wait, were the rest of the sandwiches supposed to be the school? The Cheer Team? What were you in this analogy?—your horizons have expanded since the meteor. 

Karkat is sitting in the same corner of the room, still curled up in his overly large blanket. He’s reading one of his romance novels again, but looks up when you enter. He’s not startled, this time, but looks guarded. Fuck. Umm, that’s fine, you can pretend you just wandered in by accident and leave and not deal with any bullshit. You’ve had enough cuddling for the rest of your life, anyway.

“So,” You ask in a cool and suave tone, “wanna watch a movie with me?” 

You in no way sound desperate. You truly believe this, which is a testament to the tenacity of the human spirit. It is also incredibly embarrassing when you realize later what a dork you were, you both were, but that’s not for a while yet. For now, you think you sound cool and suave.

Karkat cocks his head to the side, and you’re reminded of the way a cat looks at prey. But, like, in a cute way. Contemplating whether or not he’ll make a move, eager but shy of startling you. Hungry.

“Well fuck,” he grumbles happily as he pushes himself to his feet, “if you’re gonna ask like that, I can’t really say no. Come on, I have a DVD copy of Hitch that’s aching to be seen. We can set up in the T.V. room by the kitchen. I’ll bring the movie, you bring blankets and popcorn. Come on, don’t just sit around like a lusus’ turd, get a fucking move on.”

You grin a little, nod at him, and scamper the fuck back to your room to grab a blanket. You’ve got this great quilt in your room you’ve been using when you wake up in the middle of the night with terrors; it’s heavy fleece, a nice soothing gray color. You also alchemize up some popcorn, even though food from the alchemiter tastes kind of weird, because it’s too much time and effort right now to go find a packet of popcorn and microwave that shit. You just plug in a captcha for some hot popcorn, and in a flash you have a nice hot bucket of buttered, salted popcorn. Smells slightly of ozone, but whatever. You have a movie to watch.

The lights in the T.V. room are off, but you can see by the widescreen’s light. The menu screen for the VHS of Hitch bathes the room in a dim white light as Troll Will Smith—God, you can’t believe that’s his actual name. Like if your version was called Human Will Smith it would be fucked up, but no, apparently all the trolls accept that. That’s so bizarre—smiles beatifically upon the room. Your retinas are scalded by his radiance, cheerfully grinning at you over that title card like the smug jerk he is. Well, you’ll see who’s laughing when he ends up falling for the one woman he can’t set up! You know it will be you doing the laughing then. You’re always laughing at these garbage rom-coms, frequently either discussing your opinions on the “film” to anyone nearby or too busy laughing your ass off loudly to speak coherently. Movie theaters hate you. Maybe watching a movie with Karkat was a bad idea. Eh, if he gets annoyed at least he’ll let you know.

Karkat’s on the sofa, fiddling with the remote. You hop on down next to him, tossing the folded blanket in his face so you have a distraction to grab the remote. You start munching the popcorn and start the movie as Karkat flails around with the blanket and curses you out.

“What the ever-living fuck, you shit-eating, cock-faced, ass-munching pile of loosely assembled dick jokes? I FUCKing swear I’m going to die under this blanket. I’m fucking suffocating. You prick, you’re going to kill me. There’s no fucking oxygen. My shout spewer is losing fuel. I’m gonna be smothered to death by a fucking hipster with a ratty blanket. Oh, my lusus would be proud.” Karkat keeps up his tirade as he attempts to escape the blanket, and you’re honestly impressed. It’s, like, a single sheet. How can he be stuck under it for so long? Whatever. You decide to take mercy on him, at least so his muffled profanity doesn’t keep you from interrupting the movie.

With a flourish you pull the blanket off of Karkat, pass him the bowl of popcorn, and spread the blanket across your laps carefully. You keep the remote so you can pause the movie and diss Troll Will Smith if need be. Karkat huffs, but seems appeased by your popcorn sacrifice. He shuts up as the movie begins, and scarfs down some popcorn. He also scoots noticeably closer to you.

Well, if this were a horror movie, you would wait until a scary moment and then slip your arm around his shoulder. If it were a nice boring movie, you would pretend to fall asleep on his shoulder. But it’s a fucking rom-com. Too boring to boost Karkat’s adrenaline, too melodramatic to make him fall asleep. It’s the anti-snuggle movie. You refuse to give in and just scoot closer to Karkat. That’s the quitter’s way. No, you’re sure you can concoct some scheme to get you two cuddling without being the one who wants it more.

Last time, you went to him first. You cuddled. It was the shit. But if you just keep on asking for affection, he’ll think you’re desperate. So you sit on the same sofa, under the same blanket, watching the same movie. You’re a few inches apart. Not close enough to cuddle, though; you’d have to scoot closer to him, clearly showing your desperation. You’d rather die in the fiery explosion of the Green Sun again, feeling the agony as your body was torn apart by tongues of flaming radiation, then reformed inside the sun itself, letting Rose drag you by the hand as you flew out of that burning casket while it birthed itself. Okay, so maybe it isn’t that bad. Still, you know there’s got to be an easier way to get around your fear of rejection and eternal loneliness than just asking for physical affection. It’s worked once before; time for a new strategy. What to do, what to do…

You’re the most cliched, touch-starved, indecisive, romantic, dumb-as-shit, tsundere, emotionally repressed, short-sighted, idiotic blend of shitstains that has ever stood on two legs and had the audacity to call itself a teenager when, in fact, it was a collection of shitstains held together by memes and a pair of old shades. So you do nothing. You strategize.

Karkat, however, is another fucking matter entirely. He’s talking over the movie constantly, random tidbits about some book he’s been reading, a conversation he had with Rose the other day, what he thinks of this casting choice or that. He can’t keep his mouth shut, like he’s worried if he closes his lips they’ll stay glued together and he’ll have to hum all his shit-talking. You let yourself get lost in his tirade as you plan your move.

“Jegus fucking damn him, it’s five minutes in and T.W.S. has my Lacrimal Tubes gushing. He’s so fucking beautiful, look at him go, Dave. He’s an artist, but not just any artist; a pickup artist. Troll Eva Mendes won the fucking lottery. Look at that smug little grin! He knows what he’s doing, but I can’t help myself. I’ve seen this fucking masterpiece at least five times, but the end always reduces me to weeping. Dave, I’m going to need a tissue box. If I don’t have tissues in this room by the time Troll Eva Mendes and Troll Will Smith happily enter into matespritship, I’m going to get snot fucking everywhere.”

“Dude, come on,” you protest in monotone, “I’m not leaving this cush-ass seating right after I got my tush all comfortable to get you some fucking Kleenex. Can you, like, try not crying? Just let the sadness exit your body in profanity-laced rants.”

You pat his shoulder reassuringly to calm him down, and to your surprise he leans into it. You change your motion from a pat into a continuous stroke, petting his shoulder softly. He’s silent for a moment, leaning against your touch, then begins to speak. The movie drones in the background. It’s been going for fifteen minutes, twelve seconds. Thirteen. Fourteen.

“You’re not used to quadrants and shit, I get that. They’re so basic even a fucking 1-sweep old can understand, but… ok. This right here is called a shoosh-pap. It is something Moirails do, to calm someone down and tend to the homicidal urges of a higher-caste partner. Moirails are pale, meaning they don’t feel… romantic, physically, about each other. They’re partners, but just really fucking good friend partners. Shit. They’re more than that, obviously, but I can't fucking explain it to someone who doesn’t even have the class to appreciate Troll Will Smith’s best performances. Point is.”

He sighs, leans back against the sofa. He puts the bowl of popcorn down on the floor and pulls the blanket up to his chin, so you can only see his cute (fuck) little face peeking out over a mountain of blanket. You continue kind of stroking the part of the blanket where his shoulder is.

“I kind of want to be flushed. With you. I think Matespritship? I don’t fucking hate you, insufferable as you are, like, all of the time. And you probably don’t get this, but you’re not supposed to pick your Matesprit. Not really. You’re not supposed to pick your quadrants, they’re like, supposed to be destined for each other. It’s in your blood, your ancestors, you just know it. That’s how it’s supposed to be, that’s how it IS in all the fucking movies and books and trashy tell-all gossip rags we’re fed. It’s destiny, you know it. And I feel like I don’t have a fucking clue with you. So I’m… I don’t know. Fuck. Confused.”

You resist the urge to tell him you have that effect on a lot of people, or that he has that effect on you. You slowly halt your stroking as you think up an answer, run your hand through your hair clear your throat, and speak.

“We have the exact same bullshit on Earth. It’s this idea that, like, you have one person out there who fits you perfectly, and you’ll know them exactly when you find them. And you’ll lock eyes with some hot brunette sitting in the window at a coffeeshop across the street and just know ‘That’s the one.’ And you won’t be confused at all, about who you like or don’t like, or how you like them, or if there’s only one person or if this is the right one. You just… know. And maybe I’m dumb as shit, but I don’t think I can feel that way. This has been… slow.”

He looks at you, a bit of fear in his eyes, a bit of anger. They’re cute eyes, a sharp animal gold with glossy, intelligent black glinting at the center. 

“This?” he asks with a sarcastic growl, gesturing at you, him, the blanket, the popcorn, the T.V. with Troll fucking Will Smith on it.

“This,” you nod, “This… liking. I want to cuddle with you. I filled out a fucking application, man, I don’t know! I want to spend time with you. Not like we have any choice, we’re on a tiny fucking meteor. But I would want to if we were a thousand miles away, still on separate planets. I’d want to watch shitty movies with you, and cuddle under blankets, and talk about our days and hold hands. I’m new to this. Liking. I want to try it all out, keep falling slow. You?”

God, your hands are sweating. Like, it’s ludicrous how bad you want to wipe them off on the blanket. You do, discreetly, while Karkat is about to answer you. You’re trying to act cool but at this point if he says no–what question did you even fucking ask? “You?”–you’ll just kind of disintegrate on the spot. But that’s totally fine with you. Minus the issue everyone else will have of getting Dave-dust out of the blanket.

“Yeah.”

You kind of fall over onto him, like a giant tree awkward felled by the axe of romance, and he suffers your affection for a long moment before kind of scooting around so your head is in his lap and his hand is in your hair. You can feel him smiling down at you above, hand running through your hair, and you try not to smile too hard and focus on Karkat’s touch; you’re looking directly at Troll Will Smith meeting Troll Eva Mendes on the big screen. 

The movie has been playing for seventeen minutes, forty-nine seconds when Karkat says, quietly for once, “You would not believe the fucking day I’ve had, Strider. So I stayed up late last night reading The Novel In Which A Young Alternian Gentlemen Finds Himself in Dire Need of… well, I was reading a book. And I wake up this morning with a splitting headache. So I go to the fridge to see if we have any coffee, but your fucking ecto-half-sister finished it and made a new pot, but it’s decaf. So now I’m fucking losing my shit, right? And then…”

You stay there until the movie is over, and the screen goes to static. You turn the T.V. off, so the room is dark but for a bit of light from the kitchen down the hall. And you talk to each other. You find a place to start from.

**Author's Note:**

> Thx @CollectivistCorvid for the inspiration, and happy holidays!


End file.
